Dangerous Game
by Lookpastthemask
Summary: Christine has left Erik for Raoul. Erik seeks to find release from his past. Can comfort be found in the arms of a lady of the night? EOC
1. Paris Waits

**I feel like I have to explain some things before anyone starts this story. This is rater R for many reasons. If you're offended by father/daughter rape, beating of women, or violent murders, I suggest you turn back now. This isn't a light story. It's going to start out slow but it will pick up. I can't promise anything light or fluffy romance wise but I can guarantee that Erik is a lot different then he is in my other story. This is based mostly off events that happened in the book, minus Erik crawling into a hole and dying. With that said, I leave you, my wonderful reader. **

"I can't do this," she whispered. The streets were dark and bustling with activity. She felt her fathers prodding finger dig into her back.

"You will do as I say or I will be forced to bring harm to your person," he said, his thick Irish accent a troubling contrast to the Parisian voices that floated past them. It held a tonal quality which sent shivers down Rose Amelia's back. She was a young girl, nineteen years of age, her appearance tired and haggard from the life she had lived up until this point.

She came from Waterford, a city in Ireland. There had been no money in their household, her father a raging alcoholic and her mother a common whore. She had two younger brothers who did nothing but steal from their neighbors and local merchants who had just as little as them. She remembered often scolding them; Rose was the only one who would do it. At a young age she'd learned that the world was cruel and uncaring, a place of hurt and suffering. Her father, Seamus Brady, was an evil man who did nothing but abuse her family and took advantage of a younger Rose. Her brothers slept in the same room, never stirring, although she was sure they knew what went on. He had forced himself upon her the first few times, her resistances futile. By the time she had turned ten, she learned to just let it happen. If she just let her father do what he wanted he would leave more quickly.

The thought of leaving home had never crossed her mind the whole time they lived in Waterford. Where would she have gone? She had no title, nothing to her name except disgrace. Who would give a woman work anyway? When the world had seemed to be at its worst everything began to fall apart.

One night, while her father was having his way with her, he told her they were leaving.

"What about mother and my brothers?" she had asked. The smile that her father gave her that night was imbedded in her mind forever. It was dripping with satisfaction and pride.

"They will not be coming with us," he had answered and climbed off her. Rose had not liked the way her father had looked so she followed him. Her steps were light and silent. She approached her parent's small room and peered inside. What she saw sickened her. Inside, her father held a long, jagged knife, fresh blood adorning the blade. Rose's mother's throat was slit. Later, as her father dragged her onto a sea bound vessel, he told her of how he'd slit her brothers throats before spending time with her.

"You bastard," Rose had fumed.

"Your disrespect will change nothing," Seamus had snapped and shoved his daughter against a cabin wall.

When they arrived in Paris Rose had been sick, and the shack her father found for them to stay in did nothing to help her get over the ailment. The only thing that had filled her with hope was the fact that they were in a new place; maybe this would be her chance to get away. That did not happen. Instead her father waited until she had gotten better and took the streets. This is where she found herself now.

They were in a seedy part of Paris. Not so bad off that people didn't like walking through it. It was more nostalgic to the upper class then dangerous. Upper class is what her father wanted; they would pay the most for a young woman in the prime of her life. Rose was an attractive woman, her face pleasant and kind. Her hair was a fiery red, a startling difference to the rest of her family who had brown hair. Her eyes were a deep brown, her lips full and well shaped. She was malnourished, her clothes barely fitting her.

"I can't," she said again, trying to defy her father but failing. Her father turned her towards him and grabbed her roughly by the arms.

"You will do as I say bitch! We came here to escape from the past and unless you want me frequenting your bedroom again you will sell yourself! You will do this for me and not complain!" Spittle flew from his mouth and landed on her face. She wanted to wipe it off but her arms were pined to her sides.

"Do we understand?" Seamus asked as he brought Rose's face close to his own. Rose nodded. His nails dug into her arm.

"Yes father," she managed to get out. He let her go and shoved her towards a group of men who had been eyeing her ever since they'd arrived. She did not turn around as Seamus yelled,

"Paris waits!"


	2. The first job and the Masked Man

I'm going to try something different for this chapter. Instead of being dull and repetitive I'm going to use BIGGER words and more ADJECTIVES! I have a giant nine week project coming up for a class I'm in and I need the practice. Oh, and I find it necessary to describe her first "job" before we get to Erik…it just seems right. Now onto the story! Cheers!

The men had been more then eager to lend a hand to a "worthy" cause. The first one of the night had taken her to his apartment. It was more upper class then Rose was used to and she was astounded by the many knick knacks the man had procured.

"You have a wonderful collection," she remarked, marveling at a glass figurine of a ballet dancer which adorned the shelf of a wooden china Cabinet. The man scoffed and tossed his waist coat onto a rather expensive looking arm chair.

"My wife is a fan of junk," he spat, "She wouldn't know art if it bit her on the ass!" Rose turned her head at these harsh words.

"_My first trick…a married man!" _She thought and ran a hand across a volume of books. They were titles and authors she had never heard of. She wondered what stories those novels told. The man had finished removing his odds and ends and crossed to her.

"How much will this little get together cost me?" he asked, his demeanor changing from his previous outburst. The look of lust in his eyes startled Rose and reminded her of Seamus right before he took her.

"How much?" she stuttered. The man rolled his eyes.

"Money," he said, simply annoyed with her at this point, "I assume you're a whore by the way you carry yourself and I am accustomed to paying my whore." Rose nodded and tried to gather amounts in her head.

"Fifty Francs?" she replied. The man eyed her suspiciously but that suspicion quickly melted into acceptance.

"Cheap I see," he smirked, "Well, this must be my lucky day!" Rose felt completely repulsed by this man and the way he carried himself. Not only was he cheating on his wife but he openly insulted her antiques to a woman he did not even know!

"Where would you prefer to do this?" she asked. On the outside she was playing the part but inside she was screaming.

"My bedroom," was his reply. He guided her to the room which was tainted by the touch of a woman. The bed was covered in satin, a material Rose had not felt in ages. Would Satin forever remind her of this moment in time? The man spread himself on the bed and motioned for her to say where she was.

"Undress," he ordered. Rose, knowing when to obey, began to slip off her thin dress. It was an ugly grey colour that did not flatter her at all. Her father had paid a man to alter it from its original virginal appearance to what it was now, a whore's outfit. She wore no undergarments save the stockings she wore out of habit; her father often told her that a prostitute did not deserve fancy frills underneath their clothing. The man licked his lips, anticipation mounting underneath his trousers. Rose could see that this would not take long; the man had not even taken off his pants.

"Come," he demanded. She walked slowly towards him, her shame showing. He smiled at her uncomfortable demeanor. She placed her body beside his and closed her eyes as she felt his lips on her neck. Rose's mind flashed to Seamus and the many nights he explored her body before plunging into her.

"I'm not one for foreplay," he announced. Rose titled her head to one side and caught a glimpse of the moon through the window. It was bright, casting its haunting glow on the edge of the bed. She turned her head back towards the man and watched as he mounted her frail and lifeless body.

"_If only he knew he made love to a woman already dead_," she thought as he plunged inside of her. She gritted her teeth and took the pounding as he brought himself down upon her again and again. His breathing became deeper as he neared an orgasm. Rose felt nothing, her body numb to the touch of a man. She could feel his juices inside of her as he let out a straggled cry as he erupted. Rose had barely lifted a finger and she'd made a measly fifty francs. How was she to live this life? He climbed off of her and sat on the bed, his breathing becoming normal once again. He buttoned up his pants and turned to her.

"I will get your money while you dress," he said and got off the bed and left the room. She covered her breasts with her arm and nearly flew from the confines of the bed. She dressed quickly, not wanting to spend another moment in that place. He returned just as she was fully clothed. He did not look at her when he handed her the money. She took it and stuck it in a pocket her father had requested be sewn onto the material.

"You know where the door is," he snapped. His disgust with her had already begun to show. So this is how it was to be. A man would take her for a moment and then cast her aside; indifferent to whether she lived or died? Rose had known that this was what she was in for and yet she couldn't help but want to turn away from it all. The thought of dying without a roof over her head frightened her away from the notion of running. Her father might have been a bastard but he was the one who fed her and gave her somewhere to stay.

She left the apartment, the door slamming shut behind her. She did not care that this man treated her like scum. Upon exiting the building she almost ran into a woman carrying a baby.

"Excuse me," Rose apologized. The woman turned her nose up at her and entered the building. Was that the wife? If so, she was glad she'd shagged her husband.

* * *

This routine continued for the next few months. Her rates had gone up since that first night, Seamus's beating assured that. She still felt the shame that came from undressing in front of a stranger, or being roughly thrown onto a bed fully clothed. The constant invasion of her body numbed her emotions and left her an empty shell. Every night she was on auto-pilot, the lines well rehearsed. Every motion, every kiss, every scream, was an act. She could not feel passion if she had wanted to. Sex was a game to her, the men the opponents. She became friends with some of the other girls who frequented the streets. Some worked free lance and others came from the many Bordellos that lined the streets. One such girl was a young jewel named Sophie. She was only fourteen but looked eighteen. The life she had lived aged her considerably. She still possessed a beauty many of the other whores did not. Her hair was a bright blonde, her eyes a sky blue. Her keeper kept her well fed so her body was curvaceous and sensual. Her face was filled with knowledge and at the same time possessed a quite innocence. She met her one night while waiting for a man to approach her. The young one had come over and asked if she could stand with her, the night air had been chilled by a sudden breeze. At first Rose turned her away but once she looked into this wide, doe eyes she was hooked. They shared the heat from each others bodies until one was whisked off. Their other meetings had been similar but more time had been there's. They talked little and instead, soaked in each others presence.

So, on this particular night, when Sophie had found her and once again stood by her side, she began to ask questions. Rose accepted interaction.

"Bitter night," Sophie suddenly spoke up, making Rose's heart skip a beat. She turned to her younger companion and smiled.

"Yes," she agreed, "Certainly not a night to be standing outside." Sophie laughed softly but quickly stopped. It was not proper for a whore to laugh.

"Where do you come from?" Sophie asked. If she had been any younger, Rose might have thought this question rather impromptu and personal, but since her long stays on the streets had aged her, she felt compelled to answer.

"Waterford," she replied, "It's in Ireland." Sophie nodded.

"I like your accent," she said softly and looked down to her feet. Rose almost smiled but felt it fade as a carriage approached them. Rose had never been picked up by anyone wealthy enough to afford a carriage. From the shadows of the box she heard an emotionless and stilted voice say,

"You, what is your name?" Rose thought this question odd but ran with it anyway.

"Rose Amelia," she responded, trying to see into the black but unable to make out any shape.

"A rose you are," he said, "Join me in my carriage." She turned to look at Sophie who shrugged and motioned for her to join the stranger. Rose cautiously approached the coach until she could see inside better. She could make out the figure of a man sitting quite still near the window adjacent from the one she peered into. She opened the small door and climbed inside. The man motioned for her to sit across from him and she did without argument. The carriage then began to move again, leaving Sophie behind in the darkness. The man that sat before her hid his face from her beneath a hooded cloak. He was dressed from head to toe in black.

"We shall go to your place," he ordered quite harshly, emotion finally coloring his voice. She looked out the carriage window and watched houses pass.

"I'm not accustomed to taking clients to my house," she informed. The man chuckled and extended his hand. In it was a pile of francs. The paper was calling out to her.

"My house it is." She gave the driver directions and they rode in silence. She did not want to talk to this man, he scared her.

When they arrived at the house she got out first and waited for him to emerge. He did not at first but slowly made his way out. She was becoming impatient. None of her other clients had given her this much trouble. He seemed older, more haggard and bent. She did not mind older men, they paid better then most of the younger ones. This one was no exception. She led him to her small room at the back of the shack she called home. Ever since she'd began her "job" they'd moved out of the box they had dwelled in and moved up a class. It was still the slums. Her bed was nothing more then a mattress stuffed with hay. It was better then sleeping on the floor at any rate.

"How may I service you tonight Monsieur?" she said, each line flowing together as she had practiced. Usually the men would tell her what they wanted and she'd tell them what it would cost. This was not the case tonight. The man approached her and slapped her across the face. The force of his hand on her face so suddenly made her cry out in pain. She had not expected this.

"I am a whore not a," she began but stopped when the man lifted his hood back. The right side of his face was covered by a white mask, its features as expressionless as the sex she endured every night. The other side was a confused mess of scars and burn marks. Underneath them she might have found a rather handsome man, one tortured by the marks he'd made. They all looked rather fresh, barley weeks old. She wanted to ask how they'd gotten there, why he wore a mask, but she never made the clients personal life her business.

"You will be what I tell you to be," he said, his eyes running down her body, "You will do what I tell you to do." He approached her, something most men did not do. Her breath caught in her throat as this beaten and torn man brought his body up against hers and backed her into the wall. His breath was hot on her face, his hands icy as they pinned her wrists to the wall above her head. She turned her head away from him, his breath now warming her neck.

"How does one become so lost?" She did not answer his question as she felt his lips press against her neck

"Do you not answer for it is not accustom for men to ask these things?" the man asked, his nails digging into her flesh.

"Why do you ask these things?" she countered as she bit her lip to stifle a cry of pain. She could feel a small trickle of blood run down her arm.

"I do as I please," he said, releasing her. She fell to the ground nursing her wounds. She looked up at the man who threw the money at her. She watched the francs fall like rain around her.

"I expect you for myself in a fortnight," he boldly stated, "If you comply more then that will be at your disposal. There is a small village not to far from here and in this village there is an abandoned church. If you wish to keep your health and be paid, you will be there at nightfall." With that the man turned and took his leave of Rose. She heard the sound of horse's quick steps fading off into the night. Why did this man want her to meet him at this abandoned church? More importantly, why her?


	3. The Persian

**This is another long chapter. I'm 100 sure all the chapters except the first one will be this long. So if you're not a fan of long chapters, this is not the story for you. Thanks for the reviews! Cheers! **

Rose sat in her room until she heard her father come in. Her first instinct was to hide from him and not let him know she was home. Usually at this time she would be out looking for work or in the middle of a "job." She was afraid of what his reaction would be when he saw her home so early. Gathering herself she walked towards the door which would lead her to either pain or praise. She clutched the money in her hand tightly and pushed the door open. Her fathers head snapped around. At first all Rose could make out was confusion but then it turned into unmistakable anger.

"What are you doing home so early?" he demanded coming towards her. She closed the door and pressed her back against it. She was in a defiant pose but felt weak through and through.

"A very special client requested to come back here," she quietly responded, "He paid very well." Seamus's eyes lowered to the money. He reached out and grabbed it from her, his movements hurried. His eyes were full of suspicion causing Rose to lower her head. She did not want to watch him count the money.

"There is nearly Five Hundred francs here!" her father exclaimed. Rose lifted her head. Seamus looked at her with quiet awe.

"He was very generous," she said. Rose thought she was off the hook that nothing bad would happen between them. She reached for the handle of her door but was stopped by her father's hand slamming against it.

"Who did you rob?" he whispered menacingly. His other hand was raised in a fashion that would suggest he was about to hit her. She cowered.

"I did not rob anyone!" she cried, "It was a very generous man!" His hand lowered. Seamus scoffed and came closer to Rose. She grimaced as the smell of alcohol and smoke enveloped her. He rested a hand on her shoulder.

"And did he ask anything else of you?" Rose bit her tongue and thought about what the man had said earlier.

"Yes," she replied, "He wants me to meet him again…exclusively." Her father smirked and lowered himself down to her level, his cheek brushing against hers.

"And did he discuss payment?" Rose nodded and gulped. She hated when Seamus did this.

"He said he would pay well." She heard a low chuckle and then felt lips press against her cheek. Never in her life had she wanted to run more.

"I think I may allow this," he said directly into her ear. His hot breath on her face sent shudders of disgust down her spine. The shoulder of her dress had fallen revealing her bare skin. She knew her father could never resist the temptations of the flesh. She felt his lips press against her neck first and then followed their movement all the way to her shoulder. She had learned in the past to just close her eyes and take what was coming. Usually, after a long night of drinking, his foreplay wouldn't last too long and he'd either get to the point or fall asleep from the effort. Rose hoped tonight was the latter. She longed to be anywhere else. The feeling of her father's hands working her dress up past her waist was unsettling but familiar. His hands found the inside of her thigh and moved up towards her midsection. As he skimmed over her private area she felt a small hint of desire which disgusted her. Even if it was her father, he still treated her better then most when it came to sex. The night she had come to realize this she had vomited continuously trying to purge the horrible feeling from her body. Seamus's hands on her breast caused her to finally give into.

"Do you want to move this into the bedroom?" she queried. At this suggestion her father's hands stopper their groping and he backed away.

"No. I need to sleep." With these words he walked away and entered his own small room and shut the door. Rose's chest heaved up and down. She was surprised at her sudden bought of luck. She quietly entered her room and sat upon her bed. With her head in her hands she reminisced about the stranger who had just stood in her room a little while ago. He'd paid her and he had not even had his way with her sexually. This was an odd occurrence for Rose. He had, however, left his mark on either of her wrists. Thinking of this she examined them closely. He must have had sharp nails to do such damage to her tender skin. They had clotted up and stopped bleeding awhile about but they still throbbed painfully. She did not feel so bad about these marks; the scars on his face had been much worse then what he had done to her wrists.

"Why would he scar himself so?" Rose asked herself, "And why does he wear a mask?" All of these questions turned in her head. She could not seem to rid herself of her own infernal curiosity.

"Well you will just have to go to him," Rose told herself, 'That's the only way you will ever know." She smiled. How she was going to get to the church was still a mystery but at least she had made up her mind. With at least one reassuring thought in her head she fell asleep.

* * *

When the night finally arrived she was ready. Her father had left early to drink which gave her time to pace about their home mumbling incoherently. The tiny village which he had spoken of was not close at all. The day before she'd located Sophie and asked her about the area outside the one she normally occupied. Sophie had reluctantly told her all about it. It was not a village at all, just an extension of where they lived now. It was more run down and filled with crime. The church the man had spoken of was on the very edge of this hell hole. Lately there had been rumors of a ghost inhabiting the ruins.

"You are really going there?" Sophie had asked. Rose remembered nodding and leaving Sophie. She had nothing more to say at that moment. Now she paced the room regretting not asking anyone for a lift to that area. She could not walk the whole length and be there by nightfall. She did not want to incur any wrath this man might posses. She at least knew he was more powerful then her.

"What am I to do?" she cried. At that exact moment she heard a sharp knock at the door. She gave it an odd look and then went to open it. Outside the door was a man shrouded in darkness.

"Who is it?" she asked. There was a pause and then she heard a man speak,

"I come for you. My friend thought it best if you arrive on time." She bit her bottom lip and motioned for the man to come in. He did so and Rose studied him. He was emaciated looking for his height, his skin pale. He wore all black as the man the previous night had. He wore an astrakhan cap atop his head. Rose thought him rather out of place. He seemed to be uncomfortable in the small home. His Jade eyes scanned Rose and he smiled.

"And who might you be?" Rose asked. She didn't mean to seem so forward but she feared it came across that way.

"My name is not important. You may call me the Persian." Rose nodded and excused herself. She rushed into her room and picked up a shawl she had carelessly thrown into the corner earlier that week. She wrapped it around herself, a good protection from the bitter nip of early fall. She came back to the Persian.

"I am ready," she announced. The Persian nodded and moved outside. Rose followed behind. She shielded her eyes from the harsh light of the sun; the day's last dying breath. The man opened the door to the carriage and helped her inside. He seemed to have more manners then his friend did. He closed the door and walked around to the front. Rose felt the movement of the carriage. She attempted to relax, moving about the seat like a mad woman. She wanted to enjoy the time before she was to once again be near the scarred and dangerous man, but she found she could not. She feared this visit but she also wanted it. Rose watched as the sun slowly fell behind the buildings and the streets began to darken. This is when the carriage began to slow. Her heart pounded in her chest. She knew it was time. The door opened and the Persian helped her out. She stood in a run down area, the streets full of filth. She turned her attention away from this and directed it at the church. It was a large and crumbling structure. Vines crawled up every side. A crucifix was broken in two and had rather un-thoughtfully been thrown to the ground in front of the church.

"He waits," the man instructed and he returned to the coach. Rose felt her breath catch in her throat as she began to ascend the stairs. As she neared the worn doors she could make out the soft glow of a light coming from underneath. She took a deep breath and pushed the doors open. Inside was a mess. Pews were vandalized and broken. The altar was turned over and had rather vulgar words written on its surface. Rose shifted her weight and looked about for the man. She did not see him so she ventured further in. Stain glass windows, which once had been immaculate and pure, were now broken. She frowned at the sight. This part of the city was a mess. She searched deeper in the ruins until she came to another door behind the broken altar. It was marked with a giant 'X' and looked more clean and well kept then the doors at the entrance. She turned the knob and entered. The first thing she saw was a fire burning brightly in a fireplace. A chair was positioned in front of it, from her angle she could see no one sat in it. The room was almost bare except multitudes of paper that littered the floor. That was when she was seized from behind and a mans voice, full of venom, said,

"It is customary to knock first."


	4. Erik

**I am updating! I know it took me awhile but I am simply running about every which way and have just gotten around to updating either story today. So enjoy this because I enjoyed writing this chapter. **

Rose shuddered at the touch of his hand. She looked down and cringed at the sight of long fingers and pointed finger nails. She feared they would dig into her skin again. His skin was so white he seemed almost ghostly.

"Even whores should have manners!" he said harshly and shoved her towards the arm chair. She struck the chair hard and fell. Her elbow struck the ground hard and she cried out in pain. She stared at the ground, her hair hanging in her face. She panted loudly.

"You cry out in pain yet you do not speak!" he exclaimed. She heard his light footsteps move past her. She lifted herself from the position she had fallen into and sat on the ground. She nursed her elbow. The man now sat on the sill of a window, his gaze lost on something outside.

"I did not know it was my job to speak Monsieur," she said sarcastically. His head turned sharply towards her, a smirk on his face.

"What a clever little whore you are." Rose almost stormed out but decided against it. There was no telling what this man would do. He did not look threatening. His clothes were tattered and his hair was UN kept and dirty. He looked like a beggar. His attention was once again fixated on something else. She didn't dare rise to her feet just yet. She continued to stare at him, willing him to say something. He did.

"If you are wondering what I am looking at, it is a garden. The garden is as dead and ugly as I am." These words seemed pleading somehow. Rose took this as a chance to get to her feet. She did so slowly. He did not turn to look at her. When she was on her feet she brushed herself off.

"Have I been brought here for a reason or are you just wasting my time?" she said curtly. The man was up on his feet in a heartbeat. Rose was shocked by how fast he moved. He stood in front of her now, his breath hot and retched on her face.

"You inconsiderate bitch!" he screamed and grabbed her by the arm, "I never waste anyone's time!" His fingers were digging into her arms. She could feel the circulation being cut off. She cried out in pain but this did not stop the fingers from piercing her tender flesh.

"You cry out but you do not even know pain!" he accused and let her go. She did not collapse to the floor like the time before but stood there facing the man. She did not know how to approach this situation. Men had grabbed her before but always with a clear purpose. This man seemed to have none.

"None of you know what it is like to be utterly consumed by despair," he said turning from her, "I didn't really expect you too." He seemed to be sobbing silently after these words spilled from his lips. How could a man so angry and cruel show so much emotion? Rose thought about reaching out to touch the man but she decided against it. She did not know yet know how he'd react to someone's touch.

"Monsieur, I am a prostitute. I did not mean to speak out of turn. I just assume when a man brings me to their home, whatever it may be, they expect some sort of comfort sexually," she stated, a soft and understanding tone painting her words. The man turned his head towards her, the angle unnatural and all together odd. His eyes burned with a silent intensity. Rose could not decipher whether it was lust, passion, or some emotion unknown to her.

"Your tone is kind," he said, "I did not expect this." A loud pop from the fire startled Rose. She jumped a little making the man's face break out into a wide grin. He walked to the fire place and picked up a metal pole which he stuck deep within the flames. He stood staring at for such a long time Rose was tempted to run out of the building. She did not. Soon he removed the pole and twirled it about. He took a step closer to Rose and began to move it in her direction. She gasped and jumped back. The wall met her all too soon.

The pole was now no more the a few inches from her chest. The man's eyes watched the end with an unprecedented intensity. He seemed to be willing the point towards her.

"I do not want to hurt you," he declared more to himself then Rose, "I just want someone to feel what I've felt." Rose nodded and trembled. She could feel the heat from the metal. It touched the material of her clothes and an acrid burning could be smelled. She feared the tip upon her skin.

"Please don't," she pleaded, "I will do anything." At this suggestion his face contorted. He stopped moving the point forward.

"Anything?" he asked, "That is a childish plea." She feared the burning more than anything in that moment. She waited for the sensation but was greeted by the heat moving away from her body. She wanted to breathe a sigh of relief but thought better of it. He walked back over to the fireplace and placed the poker down. He scoffed loudly and retired to his arm chair.

"I also want someone to help me feel what I've never felt," he said suddenly. His presence in the room demanded attention. Rose felt drawn to him. He was a frightening man but she found him some what like a child. A foolish child who knew not what he wanted and had been denied everything he'd asked for.

"Do you know what love is Rose?" he asked her. Rose shook her head and looked to the ground. Her endless longing for love had never transcended into an actually look for it. She assumed it would come to her in time.

"No I do not," she answered. He smiled smugly and looked to the flames. She wanted to add something to her quick statement but held her tongue.

"I should have known you would be of no use to me," he sighed, "Another whore who knows only how to stir what is in a mans pants, not what is in his heart." Rose felt insulted but this but also knew it was true. She had never had a man fall in love with her.

"I may not know what love feels like Sir, but I do know what it is." He looked to her in that moment and seemed to read her like a book.

"Could you bring any love to this tired old body?" he asked. She did not know how to answer that question. Did he mean in a sexual way or some way she did not understand yet?

"I could help you," she responded. She did not know if that was what he wanted to hear or not. He nodded and looked over the side.

"I have given myself a name and you may call me by it," he told her, "It is Erik." Rose mouthed the name and nodded. She would remember. He stood and motioned towards a corner of the room shrouded in darkness. She looked toward it and peered into the black. She found a mattress in her search and moved towards it. He did not.

"Sit down." His voice was so forceful she did not even conceive of disobeying. She quietly sat on the lumpy bed and looked at the man whose name she now knew, Erik. He gave her a thoughtful glance. She wondered what went on in his head.

"I would," he began but stopped. He seemed to be conflicted. She watched him hold his head as if it hurt with a great pain. She suddenly felt that the pain she had been dealt with in her life was nothing compared to this broken soul.

"I would like to see your hair down," he finished. Rose, expecting a more lewd answer, was surprised. She nodded and took the pin that held her hair up out. The hair fell across her back in one quick motion.

"Turn to the side," he whispered, his voice full of emotion. She turned her body for him. She looked at his expression as he marveled her profile. He seemed to be deep in reminiscing.

"You can turn back to me." She did. Erik looked pleased.

"You look almost identical to her," he said with awe. Rose was confused. Who did she look almost identical too? Erik moved closer to Rose and got to his knees. He was close enough from her that she could see every scar on his face. She could all see immense pain and loneliness in his eyes. He reached a shaking hand towards her face and stopped before he touched her. The fire crackled and danced, casting eerie shadows over the two.

"I have searched the streets of Paris and beyond for someone like you," he said. Rose shivered as his icy hand touched her face. Yet, the second his hand made contact he yanked it back as if he'd been burned.

"Leave!" he cried, "Leave now!" The intensity of his plea sent Rose quickly to her feet. He walked hurriedly to a small bureau and removed some currency.

"Take it!" he cried shoving the money at her. He roughly pushed her out the door and slammed it. All this had transpired so fast Rose did not even know what had happened. Touching her face had seemed to trigger some feeling in him that was unwelcome. She looked down at the money in her hands and found it was more then before.

She walked out of the church and was greeted by the Persian.

"I will come and get you tomorrow night." Rose shook her head.

"He does not want to see me again." The Persian laughed softly and smiled at the ignorant girl.

"Oh, my dear, but he does."


End file.
